The kindness of dreams

I dreamed last night I was spooning cosily with an old school friend.  I dreamed it for hours, and I was so sharply conscious, so keenly aware.  My hand on his thigh in that badly-drawn-from-memory, gravity-free astral reality.  The exact texture under my palm.  The rich emotional telepathic connection, somewhere between embrace and merging, that never quite works in the waking world. His name was Richard, a convenient face for one of those solid, broad, somewhat soft bodies that make you feel protected and safe.  Not a shared dream, no, not when I woke at eleven a.m.

I had no idea until then how much I missed affection, the feeling of being loved.  The craving was sharp and painful.  An utter surprise. 

And I had forgotten the dream, until the comforting smell of carob brought it all back.  I thought I was doing so well, so capable and independent.  Honing my lean and spartan life, carving a lean and spartan body.  What am I supposed to do with this anomaly, this splash of emotional graffiti on my clean white wall?